


Indefensible

by cycnus39



Category: Batman (Comics), Superman/Batman (Comics)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-05
Updated: 2014-01-05
Packaged: 2018-01-07 15:48:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1121681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cycnus39/pseuds/cycnus39
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce thinks he's done something Clark can never forgive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Indefensible

There was a scent of an unfamiliar aftershave in the air, an old fashioned mix of bergamot, orange, geranium and sandalwood. Frowning, he opened his eyes to the tight cotton weave of his pillowcase before his gaze shifted across the floor to the east wall of his penthouse bedroom.

His penthouse bedroom? But Clark was--

“That’s right just ignore me,” Harvey purred low by his ear and he froze, couldn’t breathe past the choking lump of fear in his throat, couldn’t think past the horrifying knowledge that he was naked in bed with Harvey.

Then he felt Harvey move a little closer, knew Harvey was about to kiss him, and blind panic made him dive out of bed so awkwardly he crashed into the bedside cabinet, overbalanced and fell backwards onto the floor.

“Hey! Where’s the fire?” Harvey leaned over the edge of the bed to frown concernedly down at him. “You didn’t hurt yourself, did you?”

Ignoring the question, he gasped a ragged breath and tried to think, but his mind just kept insisting that this couldn’t be happening. He could see the light from the morning sun turning the tips of Harvey’s hair a reddish gold, feel the strength of Harvey’s presence in the room, hear Harvey’s breaths quicken as Harvey grew impatient at his silence, but it still couldn’t be happening. He shouldn’t be at the penthouse, Harvey couldn’t be in his bed and he wouldn’t have--

His stomach turned on him and he had to swallow hard against the acid burning up his throat, had to stumble to his feet, grab his trousers from the floor and pull them on.

“Where are you going?” Harvey growled, but he didn’t answer, just buttoned up his trousers and headed for the open bedroom door.

Harvey got there first.

“Look at me!” Harvey snapped, body blocking the doorway, but he couldn’t lift his gaze from the carpet between his feet, could only shake his head then fight down another bout of nausea.

“I said look at me!” Harvey tried to grab his chin and he stepped back out of Harvey’s reach. A heartbeat later, Harvey moved forwards, reached out to grab his chin again and this time he pushed Harvey’s hand away, met Harvey’s furious scowl with a glare.

“Don’t touch me.”

“Don’t touch you?” Harvey repeated then blinked in hurt disbelief before shouting in his face, “DON’T FUCKING TOUCH YOU?”

“Harvey--”

“I’M GOOD ENOUGH TO FUCK YOU BUT I’M NOT GOOD ENOUGH TO TOUCH YOU?”

“That’s not what I--”

“You heartless little bitch!”

“Get out of my way, Harvey.”

“But it’s your bedroom, Bruce. Hell, it’s your fucking building! I should be the one leaving. But, then again, that platinum spoon in your mouth wasn’t getting in your way when you were sucking on my--”

“NOW!” he bellowed Harvey down, but Harvey just sneered smugly back at him.

“What’s the matter? Don’t you want to remember how we fucked all night? Don’t you want to remember how you couldn’t get enough of my--”

Shoving Harvey hard to the floor, he strode out of the bedroom then slammed the door shut behind him, moved quickly through the penthouse to the front door. Then he was in the outside corridor and the thick carpet was pushing up between his toes as he all but ran to the fire exit stairwell at the back of the building. Halfway down the second flight of stairs, he realised there was nowhere to go. A split second later, his legs gave way and he collapsed backwards onto the steps, let the pain of the fall bring stinging tears to his eyes as his world came crashing down around him.

Clark would never--

Screwing his eyes tight shut, he concentrated on the sound of his choked breaths echoing down into the darkness of the stairwell and forced himself to think clearly because there had to be reason, had to be an answer, had to be a solution.

But there wasn’t.

He didn’t remember meeting Harvey, didn’t remember taking Harvey back to the penthouse, didn’t even remember having sex with Harvey.

Sex with Harvey.

He’d had sex with Harvey.

Opening his eyes, he blinked at the dull grey wall in front of him. He’d have to tell Clark what had happened, have to tell Clark everything. But what was everything? He needed to find out, had to go back to the penthouse. Yes, all he had to do was stand up and walk back to the penthouse. There would be enough clues in his bedroom to piece together most of what had happened and Harvey would fill in the rest. It would be easy. Easy, except he didn’t want to go back to the penthouse, didn’t want to find out what had happened because then he’d have to tell Clark and Clark would never forgive this.

Never.

So what should he do? Deny the facts? Plead ignorance? Become a liar as well as a betrayer?

Betrayer.

He’d betrayed Clark.

Holding his breath, he pulled his legs up tight against his chest then wrapped his arms around them, rested his head on his knees.

Silence.

Then something small and metallic slipped out of his left trouser pocket and clacked down onto the step beside him. He knew it was his cellphone but he didn’t want to look at it, didn’t want to consider the possibilities it presented. Instead, he wondered how it had ended up in his trouser pocket, wondered how he hadn’t noticed its weight as he had pulled on his trousers, wondered how he hadn’t felt it move against his leg as he had progressed through the penthouse and down the stairs. It wasn’t logical. But calling Clark was logical.

He should call Clark, tell Clark what had happened, tell Clark it was a mistake, tell Clark he was sorry, tell Clark something, anything, because he just needed to hear Clark’s voice, needed it so badly his cellphone was in his hand and he was calling Clark’s apartment.

One ring.

Two rings.

“Morning, sweetheart,” Clark answered brightly and he could almost see Clark standing in his apartment with the sun rising over Metropolis behind him. “I’m sorry I couldn’t make it over this morning. Intergang’s last stunt was at a sewage treatment plant and I’ve spent the last half hour trying to smell like a person again.”

He should have spoken then, should have asked if there was any detectable pattern to Intergang’s activities, should have asked if Whisper A’Daire had been involved, should have asked a hundred questions but he couldn’t even breathe. Clark kept talking, told him he was going to finish dressing and then pick up Lois’ breakfast on the way to work, told him he would try to visit him at lunchtime, but he couldn’t acknowledge any of it.

“Bruce? What’s wrong?” Clark finally asked but he still couldn’t speak, could barely breathe. “Bruce? Talk to me,” Clark pressed on and now was his chance to tell Clark he had slept with Harvey, to tell Clark he was sorry, to tell Clark-- “Okay, I’m coming over,” Clark abruptly said into the silence. “I’ll be right there, okay?” Clark went on then hung up, left him alone on the dimly lit stairs with his heart hammering in his mouth.

No! Clark couldn’t come over because as soon as Clark arrived in the stairwell, as soon as Clark looked at him, saw the traces of what he’d done, it would be over.

It would all be over.

In the dimness of the stairwell, the lighted buttons on his cellphone looked surreal and he blinked at them numbly for what seemed liked minutes. Then the numbers blurred, his temper snapped, and he threw the cellphone against the wall, watched it explode into a thousand pieces of steel, ceramic and glass. The smallest fragments were still skittering down the next flight of stairs when the roof door opened and Clark was there, standing on the third step down from where he sat, wearing only a pair of dark blue trousers and an unbuttoned, light blue shirt.

He wanted to look Clark in the eye, wanted to see Clark look at him with love one last time, but his gaze had wandered down to watch Clark’s bare feet tense reflexively against the step and he couldn’t look back up. Then seconds had passed and it was too late because Clark was drawing breath to speak and he could do nothing but close his eyes and wait for Clark’s devastated rage to consume them.

“Talk to me, Bruce,” Clark said so softly he was almost sure he’d imagined it. “You know you can tell me anything,” Clark continued with such sympathy that he had to open his eyes, had to look up at Clark’s face.

Clark wasn’t angry.

At first he thought the dim light was playing tricks on him, but it wasn’t. Clark really was frowning down at him in confusion, not anger, and Clark’s body really was tense with concern, not hostility. But that didn’t make sense. He hadn’t taken any steps to remove the evidence of his sexual encounter with Harvey so there was no way Clark could have missed the traces Harvey had left on his body.

Unable to fathom Clark’s behaviour but knowing Clark was waiting for him to speak, he ended up mumbling into the hushed silence, “I’m sorry. I didn’t...I don’t want this.”

“Want what?” Clark moved up the stairs to sit on the step beside him. “And why are you out here with barely anything on?” Clark continued, wrapping such a warm and forgiving arm around his shoulders that he had to confess.

“Harvey,” he began, but couldn’t go on, couldn’t say the words that would push Clark away.

“Dent called you?” Clark immediately assumed and he looked into Clark’s guileless blue eyes, abruptly realised that Clark had absolutely no idea what he’d done. “Bruce?” Clark coaxed with the gentlest caress down his right cheek. “What did Dent say?”

Intergang. Clark must have damaged his senses while fighting Intergang. It was the only explanation. It also meant he’d have to say the words after all.

Closing his eyes, he brought his right hand up to cup the left side of Clark’s face then said so quietly only Clark could hear, “I’m sorry. I don’t-- Harvey didn’t call me. I slept with him.”

Four words.

Four words had ended it all.

Although he couldn’t see Clark’s stricken look, he felt Clark tense then freeze, felt the air around them still. Then Clark whispered, “When?”

He didn’t want to answer but couldn’t stop confessing now that he had begun, heard himself say, “Just now. I woke up in bed and Harvey was there. I don’t know how it happened. I can’t--” His excuse caught in his throat and he choked on it, had to take a steadying breath before continuing. “I slept with Harvey but it wasn’t something I wanted. It wasn’t,” he insisted, pleaded as he opened his eyes to meet Clark’s gaze. But Clark wasn’t looking at him. Clark was looking behind them, looking back through the walls at the penthouse.

He didn’t know what else to say, was studying Clark’s face wondering what Clark was watching Harvey do when Clark suddenly turned back to him, cupped his face in his hands and kissed him.

It was a strange kiss, firm and full of emotion but not intended to arouse. Then, before he could analyse the kiss any further or even think to kiss Clark back, Clark was easing away with a relieved but sad smile.

“It’s all right, sweetheart. No one’s touched you,” Clark said while thumbing his cheeks soothingly. “Not Dent or anyone else. I promise.”

Clark believed it. Examining Clark’s expression, he could see Clark believed every word. But how could that be? He had--

“Listen to me,” Clark went on with a light kiss to draw his attention. “I know you’re confused but the best way to explain what happened last night is for you to remember it, okay?”

“I don’t--”

“Trust me,” Clark told him with another kiss. “Now start by telling me what Alfred made you for supper.”

At first he thought he couldn’t remember, but then he did, suddenly recalled the scents, the tastes, the mix of sweet and savoury, hot and cold, and answered, “Grape And Chicken Salad with Beetroot And Feta Parcels.”

“Sounds delicious,” Clark approved. “Did you eat it in the kitchen or the cave?”

“Cave,” he responded, turning away from Clark to frown down at the next step as more memories from the previous evening played in his mind’s eye. “I was on the computer trying to discover a link between Cobblepot and the new Russian mob activity in Brinkston.”

“Did you find one?”

“No, but Cobblepot didn’t know that.”

“So after supper you paid him a visit?”

“Not immediately. I first spoke to Dick and Barbara regarding the spate of waterfront arson attacks I suspected were a by-product of gunrunning activity. I then drove into the city, completed my usual circuit of the North Island before heading south. It was a quiet night so Cobblepot’s goons were picking their teeth up off the floor just after four o’clock and Cobblepot was telling his Russian friends the deal was off by ten past.”

“Then what did you do?”

“I...went to Tricorner Yards.”

“Why?”

“Barbara called. She’d linked the arsonists and gunrunners to a syndicate supplying arms to Bulgravia, Kasnia and their bordering Balkan countries. She told me the syndicate had a ship anchored five miles off the coast awaiting a consignment of armaments from the Yards to complete its inventory. I called Arthur to handle the ship then...” He trailed off as he remembered finding the syndicate’s boat being loaded on the southern corner of the Yards, remembered taking down the hired muscle before going into the warehouse to find their boss, remembered chasing a figure across the darkness of the warehouse until what he had initially thought was a smoke bomb exploded in front of him and—- “Fear gas,” he said as everything fell into place with a wash of relief and disbelief. “They threw a smoke bomb full of fear gas at me and I must have inhaled more than I thought.”

“But you still rounded up the remaining syndicate members for the police and secured the area,” Clark told him with a kiss on the side of his head, sharply reminding him that at least some of the events that had occurred during his shockingly realistic hallucination were very real.

“I know,” he returned low, unable to even glance in Clark’s direction. “After the police arrived, I parked the car in the South Island lair then came back here to sleep off the fear gas,” he finished, half hoping an alien armada would appear in the sky before Clark could mention his bout of near hysteria.

“Well, as near as I can tell,” Clark sighed with an affectionate stroke down the back of his head, “the remains of the compound in your blood looks just like the fear gas sample you showed me in the lab so I’m not sure why you were so...unusually disorientated.”

‘Unusually disorientated’? Right. Why did alien armadas never appear when he needed them?

“Anyway, no real harm done,” Clark went on with another kiss. “Arthur and the Coast Guard seized the ship successfully, Whisper A’Daire still hasn’t shown any of her faces, and J’onn and Michael looked into Intergang’s movements last night and confirmed that Darkseid wasn’t involved.”

Still too embarrassed to look in Clark’s direction, he climbed stiffly to his feet favouring the complaining muscles at the base of his spine. “Darkseid isn’t the only possibility,” he told Clark while fighting back a groan. “You should ask Barbara to check for any links to the League of Assassins.”

“Done,” Clark replied, standing up beside him and placing a warm hand over his tight back muscles as they walked up the stairs together. “So, what would you like for lunch?”

“Alfred will take care of that.”

“Not this time.”

“Clark--”

“I’m putting you back to bed then bringing you lunch in a few hours whether you like it or not so I suggest you like it and tell me what you want to eat.”

Despite Clark’s mild tone and continuing efforts to gently massage his lower back as they walked up the next flight of stairs, he still felt aggrieved at the continuing lack of alien armada and could only suggest, “Something edible.”

“Edible,” Clark repeated. “Right. Well, if you don’t have a preference, there’s a nice little bistro I go to--”

“Carmen’s, I know.”

“Oh, you’ve eaten there?” Clark asked while pushing open the fire exit door.

“No,” he answered as they walked down the corridor towards the penthouse. “They just make a very distinctive pesto.”

“A distinctive pesto that Jimmy always manages to make me drop on my tie.”

“It’s the combination of Grade A olive oil and an unusually high pine nut ratio that makes it unique.”

“And difficult to get out of ties,” Clark added as they reached the penthouse and he typed his security code into the keypad then let Clark open the door.

“Okay, you go straight to bed and I’ll get you a glass of water,” Clark said as they passed the threshold and then he was walking down the hallway missing the feel of Clark’s hand on his back.

At his bedroom door, he hesitated, let his hand hover above the doorknob before finally letting it fall and pushing open the door. As the door swung inwards, he tensed as if expecting Harvey to come charging out at him. But the room was empty.

Chiding himself for giving in to the remnants of fear gas still in his system, he walked over to the bed unbuttoning his trousers then sat down on the edge of the mattress and kicked them off. He knew the facts, knew Harvey had never been in the penthouse, knew the whole incident had been a hallucination, a bizarre product of his own imagination while under the influence of some tainted fear gas. He knew that as sure as he knew his own name...but that didn’t stop him feeling Harvey’s presence in the room, didn’t stop him catching the scent of that strange aftershave lingering in the air, didn’t stop him--

“Today’s special is lasagne,” Clark said and he looked up from his kicked away trousers to watch Clark walk into the room. “I can bring a couple of portions with some fresh bread and pesto if you like?” Clark went on, placing a glass of water on the bedside table.

“Whatever you want,” he replied, climbing into bed and pulling up the covers. “I promise not to make you drop anything on your tie.”

“Forget the tie,” Clark returned then leaned down for a light kiss before continuing, “I have a feeling that clothes won’t be a problem this lunchtime.”

He knew the game, knew it was his turn to tease Clark, but he couldn’t. Any words he thought of just died on his lips until he reached up and grabbed Clark by the back of the neck, pulled Clark down into a long, deep kiss that he could only lengthen, only deepen, until he eventually had to speak.

“I could never betray you,” he whispered breathlessly against Clark’s lips. “I would never--”

“I know.” Clark silenced him with a soft kiss. “I know.”

 

 

End


End file.
